Quandary
by smilebot
Summary: EzioxAltair: In fact, it was a wonder how in Allah's name they were not caught—judging by the way the rundown cart was "dancing" to an impish rhythm.


"_A-Ah _… o-old man … "

Shifting uncomfortably on his aching hands and knees, Altair hardly clenched his teeth together as stinging bits of stray straw poked at his face and body from all sides—wishing an unwelcome bead of sweat on his brow to stop tormenting him and just fall already. Indeed, the raging sun of Damascus was as infamous as weary travelers had warned it to be, aside from his compacted knowledge of the common grounds; the sheer fact that it was penetrating the thick pile of hay to scorch his cloaked back was of enough evidence of its potency. And though his nerves were sensitized fully at the fact that he was buried in a large wagon boasting of its close proximity to the sentries, everything seemed to be hazier than the rippling mirages provided by the heat. However, the basics were easy to perceive: The familiar scents of Arabian spices and food intermingled compatibly with the afternoon calls of prayer, and his hyper intuition picked up every single move, every single conversation, every single _breath _of a mother, guard, son, official that existed in the world outside of his artificial domain.

That is, the domain in which he was confined in.

He harshly grunted when he was coerced to lurch forward, due to the harsh impact from directly behind him. As he scrabbled a bit for a crack to hook his fingers in, he was reminded all too easily that the figure clamping his form down firmly was not aware of his actions, and, as expected, pushed him down once more with a quick snap of his hips.

"_Merda, merda, merda, merda, merda!_" Ezio huskily rasped as he tightened his hold on toned hips even further. "S-So _tight_ … ngh … " Squeezing his clouded eyes shut when a lone trail of perspiration snaked its way down his blazing temple, the younger assassin settled his entire front onto his master's back as snugly as he could and expertly surged forward, reveling greatly in the small groan of pleasure that erupted from the taller male's lips. "_Aye, sanctus _..."

In retrospect, it was utter chaos …

-because here he was: partaking in a violent rutting in a monstrous hill of straw _twelve _feet from their pursuers—out _en mediares _of the bustling kingdom, flat out situated on the right side of the market square with only the noise of the crowd and horse feed disguising them from their predators. He could hotly hear three of the pesky fools shout out their austere presence amongst the busy expanse of the plaza, and their treacherous steps were getting a tad too near their hideout for it to be considered at least "dying without penalty."

In fact, it was a wonder how in Allah's name they were not caught—judging by the way the rundown cart was "dancing" to an impish rhythm.

Hissing fervently when dexterous fingers seductively wrapped around his length, the Grand Master braced himself even more onto the gnarled surface, wishing to be rid of himself as soon as his traitorous voice pronounced a drawn-out moan. It was extremely maddening to involuntarily know that a lopsided grin was most likely plastered onto his mischievous apprentice's face, but the more cynical revelation was that the little bird was giving him no time to fully assess his current predicament. Those damn lean hips that pushed in and out, in and out, in and out—_god have mercy!_—were being a perfect distraction, along with hungry teeth that latched predatorily onto his earlobe and scraped their path downward to nip at the top of his spine in confident increments. The harder he put up resistance to all of his sadistic aggressors, the more the old boards dug into his skin and forced him to heatedly cry out and grasp Ezio's member in a permanent vice grip: which, undoubtedly, caused the impulsive teenager to thrust wildly without abandon.

From now on, veterans were to take tremendous caution with their "innocent" chicks.

Apparently, the other's pillow talk filled in for his muteness of words as skillfully as the curled hand around his shaft—_gods o-old man fuck let me go inside of you yes oh yes god so tight harder you desire it harder .._. "_Dio_, do you w-want me to go faster? … like that?" He pushed inside of him deeper with a lower angle to drag his blazing cheek up the lengths of scarred ribs. "_Si_?"

_God. Fucking. Yes—as such, just like that_. _Faster, do it faster, __**boy**_.

-that solely came out as guttural sounds from deep within, barely letting him concentrate on shoving his stiff fingers into nooks to hang on to. How their positions were switched from earlier was beyond him, because all he recalled was that he was the one shoving the acrophobic Italian down to do him senseless post-jump … but then, _but then_ … _yes_.. he had been cunningly deceived when his counterpart did that godly wicked _thing _with his tongue, and without his notice, sneaked his tan appendage near his thigh to cup his ass and tug at his robes—not that he minded being the receiving end, but he was quite surprised when the devious European wished to assert his dominant card in this day and hour, considering that it had invariably been himself who taught the noble how exactly the ecstasy of man can be found in _other _routes that did not include the worship of voluptuous breasts. And by the way his stateless mind was reeling in the ambrosia of sex, Giovanni's "prodigal" son had learned well.

Except, too well.

Finally giving up with his futile struggles, the flushed Middle Eastern broke down his reserves and sagged considerably—both from the constant pounding and the primal stress that licked at his tension; the two complications that were competing for his undivided attention were too much to handle all at once, so the best decision was to merely submit and go with what he had as profits: namely, the immense gratification that he was bestowing and vice versa. Nevertheless, he still kept a somewhat mediocre account of his vast surroundings amidst the chaotic turbulence that he was subjected to at the moment—there was no such thing as being too careful, especially when one—or _two_—was being involved in indecent acts right in the center of the public.

"Quick, after them! They couldn't have gotten far!"

The aforementioned statement applied flawlessly at this time.

"To the roof!"

In a literal sense.

The lust-driven youth locked down his playful fingers onto his bruised waist before emitting a carnal growl, growing more confident by the precious second. "_Cazzo_, since when did the _idiotas_ become so persistent in this city?" Shifting his knees sloppily to press closer to Altair's own, he let his sweat-drenched forehead rest against the latter's shoulder as he breathed in the smell of musk that complimented the spices of the Orient. "I thought that the alert would disappear by now—after all, were we not unseen when we leapt off like madmen?"

It was his turn to stutter lamer than a fool. "R-Robert must be in thi-thi-_yela'an!_" he wheezed, unconsciously throwing his head back when a curious thumb traveled over the slit of his cock. "_Ngh _… "

Doing said deed again, the lascivious pupil stifled an impending moan by widening his diabolical smile near the tip of a sanguine ear, hoping to gain back at least a smidge of his sanity—damn, his teacher could drive him mad with the simplest of actions: whether obliviously or on purpose, and it was now that he had to be on guard. If he was to revert to a schoolboy with his first virgin, there'd be no argument that the taller man would flip him over and fuck _him _maniacally, instead. "_Si_, _maestro_: _**Si**_—like that … do you like it?"

As if he could answer that.

Thus, they continued their clandestine embrace, grinding and thrusting and pulling and _Allah have mercy yes insegnante moan my name ah ah ah yes please merda faster si si si si yes faster harder ah ah si si si si ...!_—whatever calculations that were ingrained into their instincts churning away into frenzied oblivion. After all, what good was it to stretch one's neck out vulnerably when an army of knives and prying eyes were to greet him? But whatever obstacle that rose to break apart this tryst was to be condemned—with or without the aid of a hidden blade or the sting of poison; this lockdown was the napoleon of his body and mind: It consumed him to the point where the desperate coos of vendors and the loud conversations of the citizens were a blur before his sensibility and consciousness—not even the identifiable caveats of the guards could snap him back into the blazing reality. The powerful smells of trade, the dull throb of rationality, the shreds of everything and everyone around him: Gone, gone, gone they were—quicker than the hectic thrusting and the hand—that _damn _hand—upon his sex and the productions of love bites and the air above and beyond and-and-and-and …!

"Wait, something's there!"

And it all comes crashing down.

Mechanically, his old mind breached his center and rapidly alerted his body to bring out the familiar surge of epinephrine, observant pupils robotically dilating while his ears honed in to eavesdrop. Although the thick haze of desire and pleasure fogged up his entire being earlier, his new state was one that was not feasible to ease off with a shrug—of course, not saying that what they were currently doing was _effortless_, in the least; but this was his _core_, what he had been drilled to do since birth: always on the lookout and ready in every circumstance. The friendly touch of the stiletto attached to his wrist, the faint hitches in his breath, the subtle trembling in his feet to dash forward and soar—they were the ones that proudly surfaced and pushed the other to the recesses of his mentality.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" a brutish voice rang in the alleyway. "Yer just imagining things!"

The soldier that the dolt was addressing seemed to pace back and forth near their wagon before stopping with the crunch of worn chainmail. "I swore I saw movement here, and there were voices! Two of them, to be exact!"

"Well, I'm the captain here, so be off with ye and return to yer post—lest you wish for yer pay to be docked." Sir Idiocy sneezed disgustingly as his footsteps seemed to fade with his constant spitting on the roadsides. "Hurry up, ya oaf!"

Perhaps it was the heat that made his nostrils flare when two thuds of heavy boots neared the haystack—a faint beat in his senses seemed to signal to him that things were getting a little too close for comfort. "Curses, why do I have to put up with this crap? I mean, I've always been the one out scouting while he pigged out on his custards—if anyone should be the leader, it should be me."

_If anyone should be sane around these grounds, it wouldn't be you: even if you were Muhammad himself_, the watchful contender snidely thought. He could practically feel the irked youth matching his own contemplations, if the suffocating grip on his buttocks and an annoyed snarl had anything to do with it. Other than the fact that both of them were stuck together without any leeway to get closer to release, Altair truly wanted to rid the world of this completely thoughtless excuse of a human being—for, much to his revulsion, _why _the _hell _would he sit down and blabber away at a pile of rubbish? Could he not go back to his former position as told? Just when he concluded that this damned kingdom could not get any more eccentric …

So he blamed it on the degrading sun and the invasive thatch and his restricting sirwal that was bound too tightly: simply, whatever irritating object he could conjure up in his mind to ease his irritation towards the country hick—god knows this talkative twat could scream and run faster than a whoremonger. The exasperated brunet and he were in no state to continue this ridiculous bout of being statues forever—how could they when the two of them were joined so securely that his arm could be mistaken for the younger assassin's own?

As if a bored deity answered his pleas, the aggravated foreigners found out that they weren't going to stay in said arrangement extensively, since it seemed that it was inevitable that Lord Hissy-pants wanted to add an extra flare to outrageousness …

However, their coarse reply was not a very good "solution".

-because the angry lookout kicked the wagon.

And Ezio yelped.

"H-Hey …! Wh-Wh-What the bloody hell?"

_Oh._

"_Merda_, he's found out!"

_ Fucking._

"Damn, damn, _damn_! We're leaving, old man!"

_ Shit._

"Quick, assassins!"


End file.
